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Ginny sat curled up on the living room sofa, watching the fairy lights blink on the Christmas tree. Normally, she would be more than happy to help her mother, but being in here was easier than being in the kitchen right now.
She didn’t notice the fireplace turn green until George stumbled through, brushing soot out of his hair. He looked exhausted, but that was how he always looked nowadays; no amount of sleep would help. He gave her a quick grin out of habit, but it fell quickly from his face.
Ginny tried to smile back.
“Where’s your husband, then?” George asked, dropping into his favourite armchair. Ginny stared at her shoes.
“Working late. He’ll be here after a while.”
“Good. Sod him.” George muttered. He shook his head as if he’d quickly thought better about whatever he’d been about to say, hoping to avoid making things harder on his only sister. “You alright?”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug but didn’t bother answering. Her eyes went back to the lights on the tree. Her mum had hung all the family ornaments among the branches, but Ginny let her gaze slide past them. It felt wrong to look too closely. Wrong to admit who was missing.
The homemade gingerbread cookies swung gently on their strings, each enchanted not to crumble: nine redheads, one blonde woman, a blue-haired little boy, a bushy-haired girl, and a bespectacled gingerbread man with green-icing eyes and messy black icing hair. They all grinned and waved their little brown arms like nothing had happened. As if all was well.
It didn’t seem fair, how happy they looked up on the tree when reality was so much colder. Most of them were…somewhere. Charlie was with his dragons in Romania. Ron and Hermione were on the other side of the world with her parents. Bill was just across the Channel. He’d fled with Fleur and Teddy to France, where being werewolf-tainted or part Veela wasn’t yet as dangerous as it was here.
But the worst were the two little ornaments with F and H on their jumpers. She wanted to pluck them off the tree and hide them somewhere, tell them she was sorry no one had saved them, sorry they were stuck as smiling gingerbread, still hanging from an evergreen tree, waving like idiots that didn’t know they were dead.
George followed her gaze and snorted softly. “Trust Mum to keep Harry up there,” he said. “The Dark Lord himself couldn’t pry him off that branch.”
Ginny flinched at the title. It felt wrong to hear it in George’s voice, even when his tongue was placed firmly in his cheek.
“Careful…” She warned. Gingerbread-Harry blew her a kiss, and she swallowed the painful reminder of the future they’d lost, tearing her eyes from the tree to George's worn face.
He rolled his eyes but lowered his voice anyway. “Relax. We’re registered, right?” George rolled up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing a script letter V tattooed on his wrist, identical to the one on Ginny’s own. “We signed the treaty, we played nice, we’re still here. That’s the deal.”
It wasn’t how the Daily Prophet had told it. The papers liked headlines about reconciliation and unity, and how the Order had seen sense at last. Pictures of former “dissidents” shaking hands with Ministry officials, smiling like they meant it. Proof that the war had ended in agreement, not in bloodshed.
The truth was a bit more painful. Once Harry had died, scarcely a month after they had buried Fred, the Order stopped pretending they could win. Some fled, a few said they would rather die, and did. Most signed whatever was put in front of them and accepted the branding. A visible signal to all that these once-dangerous revolutionaries were safe to be trusted, that they would do no more damage to wizarding society. So sure was the new Minister for Magic, that he had guaranteed their compliance by signing his own initial on their wrists.
They hadn’t killed them all. Dead enemies are martyrs. Living ones are examples.
Ginny looked back at the gingerbread Harry and tried not to think about what they’d done to the real one after. How they’d taken his body and—
She shook her head, shifting her focus back to the fairy lights until they blurred.
If the losses they had suffered hadn’t been bad enough, some had signed more than their pride away.
The pureblood girls from “traitor” families got something extra for their trouble: a new surname and a husband from the right side of history. The Ministry called it a noble “restoration of bloodlines.” Everyone else called it nothing and kept their mouths shut.
Slowly but surely, the announcements were published.
LOVEGOOD–FLINT UNION ANNOUNCED – “A promising match between loyal families.”
ANDROMEDA BLACK WEDS AUGUSTUS ROOKWOOD – “A welcome restoration of a historic line.”
HANNAH YAXLEY SAFELY DELIVERED OF A SON – A shared heir uniting two Sacred Twenty-Eight houses.”
Ginny had clipped those, and others like them, and pasted them into a scrapbook she kept hidden under her bed. Her own engagement and marriage notices were in there, too. She wasn’t sure why she kept any of it.
Sometimes she wondered if she kept the notices because without them she’d never quite believe she wasn’t a Weasley anymore, if she kept it just in case she ever needed to flip through that scrapbook to remind herself she was now a–
“Malfoy,” George spat, just as the Floo flared once more and Draco stepped out onto the hearth.
“Evening.” He said, hanging his overcoat on the halltree by the hearth. “Sorry. They held us late.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I should let you know, there’ll be a reporter by later. Evening Prophet. They’re doing a…feature. Families coming together for the holidays. Unity and all that.”
George stared at him. “You’re taking the piss.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not. They want a few quotes. A photo. It’ll be quick.”
Ginny’s fingers curled into fists around the blanket she was holding. “Do we have a choice?”
He met her eyes for a moment. “No.”
“Why don’t they go to your parents’ tomorrow, take pictures then, when Ginny’s there?”
Draco leveled a look at George. “Come on, Weasley. You know why.”
George deflated. He did know why.
Percy turned up shortly after, and they all made their way to the dining room, where the table had been shrunk back to its normal size, leaving too few chairs behind... Dinner was stiff and quiet. Percy tried filling the gaps with work talk, but work meant awful things nowadays, and it was obvious when Percy was talking around it. His career had been such a source of tremendous pride for him that it was almost as if Percy didn’t know how not to talk about it, even if his work ultimately involved processing things like forced marriages and muggleborn imprisonments.
Arthur nodded along as if he was listening, George just pushed food around his plate, while Molly kept nudging things closer to him, encouraging him to eat. Draco ate politely, cutting everything into neat little bites, and said things like “Yes, sir” to Arthur that Ginny noticed made George’s jaw twitch like he wanted to leap across the table and strangle Malfoy’s scrawny neck.
Ginny stared longingly at her Dad’s famous eggnog, but didn’t imbibe. She lifted the glass to her nose a few times and inhaled its nostalgic holiday scent before setting it firmly back on the table, one more bit of holiday cheer lost to her this year.
Halfway through, the Evening Prophet reporter and photographer arrived. Arthur answered the door, and the pair pushed through, chatting with bright voices about how perfect the setting was, how nice the article would turn out, their boots leaving puddles of melting snow on Molly’s clean floor as they flitted around.
They took shots of the table, the tree, the newly blended family sitting together as if the entire thing had been their idea. Then they had everyone stand for a peculiar family portrait, posing Draco with his arm around Ginny, George and Percy just behind them, flanked by their parents, their practiced Ministry-approved smiles on their faces.
“Yes, lovely,” the photographer said. “Mrs. Malfoy, chin up just a bit… perfect. Mr. Weasley, oh, bother, there's three of you, tallest Mr. Weasley if you could just put your hand on your brother-in-law’s shoulder, yes, just so. And big smiles, please!”
Ginny could hear the teeth grinding through a smile behind her.
After the pictures, Molly answered a few questions about “unity” and “moving forward,” holding herself together just long enough. As soon as the door closed behind the reporters, she fled to the kitchen on the excuse of checking the pudding and came back later with red, glassy eyes. No one mentioned it.
Everyone cleared the plates, moved back to the sitting room, and on to opening presents as if it was simply the next thing to check off the holiday list.
George took charge of the meager pile of gifts under the tree when it seemed like nobody else would, passing parcels into laps. One by one, they tore into their presents: woollen socks for Percy, a music box for Molly that George had charmed to play Celestina Warbeck.
All eyes went to Draco. Warbeck’s music had been banned after the war.
He rolled his eyes and held his hands up, palms out, as if to say, not my problem. Maybe he was making a show of being reasonable for his “dear” mother-in-law. George looked almost disappointed, like he’d been hoping for a row. Ginny would have to speak with him later. If he couldn’t figure out how to live in this new world, she was going to lose him too.
Eventually, there was one long, badly wrapped package left, obvious in a way that made her stomach twist.
“This one’s yours, Gin,” George said, laying it across her lap. “Go on.”
Her stomach dropped. She ripped the paper away, and the sleek, polished end of a broom handle slid out. She knew the model before the rest of the wrapping came off. It would have cost her family a small fortune.
“We all chipped in,” Arthur said quickly when her eyes flicked up, almost horrified.
“We thought you, out of all of us, deserved something extra nice after everything you’ve been through this year,” George added, though she wasn’t the Malfoy he was looking at when he said it.
Ginny let out a broken little sob she hadn’t meant to make. George… he’s sitting right next to me. Can’t you just play nice?
“She has a dozen at the Manor,” Draco said, aiming for casual and landing on defensive. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, well,” George cut in, eyes flashing, “this one’s from us, so.”
Ginny swallowed. “It’s brilliant, really. Thank you, all.” She said quickly before anything became heated.
Normally, she’d be halfway out the door by now, mounting the broom before she’d even made it outside, to her mother’s horror. Today she just leaned it against the sofa and bit her lip, willing the tears not to come.
“Hey,” George said, softer. “Oi, don’t cry, it’s only a broom.” He glared at Draco. “Come on. Get your coat. We’ll go test it out, yeah?”
Ginny remained frozen on the couch, unable to meet George’s eye.
“I’m afraid not,” Draco said.
George bristled at the unnecessary display of control. “She doesn’t need your permission to go for a fly, Malfoy.”
Draco drew in a breath and let it out in an annoyed sigh. His gaze dropped to Ginny, then to the untouched eggnog on the side table. She’d begged him to avoid this tonight, but that was off the table now…
“It’s not about permission,” he said. “She’s not supposed to be on a broom right now.”
Molly’s head snapped to him, her face was quickly turning a pale sort of green. Arthur grabbed her hand to stop it from shaking in her lap. Percy’s face was blank. He was perfectly practised at not showing emotion, even before this new regime.
George was steaming, his shoulders heaving with the heavy breaths he was taking. “Why not?” He demanded.
Ginny wiped at her tears, still not looking up. “George—” she said his name like an apology.
Draco answered for her. “Because the healer said so.”
George moved.
“What did you do to her?” He snarled, shoving himself up hard enough that the chair nearly tipped over from the force.
Draco barely had time to move before George was on him.
Percy got there a heartbeat too late, arms locking around George’s shoulders and hauling him back with a strength George hadn’t expected his brother to possess.
“George, stop,” Percy grunted, digging his heels in and gripping him tighter. “George, that’s enough!”
George was past the point of hearing him. He twisted in Percy’s arms, eyes wild, reaching out for Draco like he would tear him apart if he could only get loose. “You said you wouldn’t touch her!” He shouted, lashing out against Percy’s grip. “You said you’d rather die than touch a Weasley…”
Ginny flinched. She remembered that. Draco, furious the day they’d signed the papers. Telling her he was being punished just as much as she was, then showing her to “her own room,” as far from his own as he could manage. It hadn’t lasted a month…
Draco’s wand was in his hand now, but he wasn’t pointing it. Yet.
“Yeah, well,” he said flatly, “she’s a Malfoy now, isn’t she?”
George froze as the words hit him like a slap. His mother was crying now, her face in Arthur’s shoulder.
After a moment, George lunged again, but Percy held fast. “You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to—”
“George! ENOUGH!” Arthur barked. Louder and sharper than Ginny had ever heard her father.
The only sounds in the room were heavy breathing and Molly’s quiet sobs. Draco holstered his wand, rubbed his jaw where George had suckered him and then straightened his collar. He looked down on George, furious at the redhead who was shaking with anger in his brother’s arms.
“You think I drew this up, do you?” he hissed. “Do you think I thought ‘winning’ meant I wouldn’t even get to pick my own bloody wife?”
George glared up at him, saying nothing.
Draco’s lip curled. “You honestly believe I put my hand up and said, ‘Yes, please, I’ll take the Weasley girl, and while you’re at it, go ahead and stick an infidelity curse in the marriage contract’?”
He kicked the leg of the tea table, Ginny’s untouched eggnog fell to the ground, glass thudding on the floor, the drink soaking deep into the rug.
“Because I didn’t,” he snapped.
When he finally looked up, it wasn’t at George. It was at Arthur and Molly.
“You’ll be grandparents in August,” he said flatly. “Odds are good it’ll be ginger.” He threw his hands up in frustration before sinking onto the sofa next to Ginny, head in his hands. “Happy Christmas.”
The room was as frozen as the garden outside.
Arthur stood. He crossed the room, stepping over the fallen glass, and the eggnog-soaked patch of carpet. He stopped in front of the sofa and held out his hand.
“Come here, love.”
Ginny let him pull her up. As soon as she was on her feet, he wrapped his arms around her. She pressed her face into his jumper and let the tears come.
“Oh, Ginbug,” Arthur rubbed her back as she cried. “You’re going to be a mum.”
She collapsed against him again, and Arthur held her a moment longer, then put his hands on her shoulders and held her out so that he could look her in her face properly. His thumbs brushed away the tears on her cheeks.
“A baby’s still a joy,” he said, choosing his words carefully as he glanced down at Draco and then back at his wife. “Oh, Molly… our first grandchild.”
Ginny wondered if that was even true. She tried very hard to push away the thoughts that surfaced, of the possibility of freckled babies already toddling around under freer skies, just across the channel, or down under, with tiny, chubby hands that her parents would never get to hold. She pushed it down, where the rest of it lived.
Arthur took a deep breath and looked back at his son-in-law, who was sitting ramrod straight at the edge of the sofa, fingers gripping tightly to his knees. “You two… you’re married. For better or for worse.” Draco wrenched his face from his hands and looked up to meet Arthur’s gaze. “Maybe, in time, you’ll find a way to be… happy in it. Or at least friendly.”
George let out a disgusted scoff.
Ginny’s head snapped toward him, her stomach lurching. One poorly timed noise in the wrong company, one wrong look on his face, one more black mark against his “cooperation,” and not even Draco’s reluctant influence would help.
She turned back into her father’s embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and focused again on the family Christmas tree. There’d be a new ornament next year. Maybe two, if she could talk Molly into baking one with perfect pale hair and a ‘D’ on its jumper.
With any luck, she’d get a few more Christmases with George before his ornament joined the far side of the tree with his twin. Three smiling gingerbread idiots who’d missed the worst of what came after, and left the rest of them to live with it.